


loose bolt, complete machine

by mondaycore



Series: the last of the real ones [3]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, Gen, Guns, Plot Twists, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 00:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: The elevator bell chimes, echoing ominously through the empty floor, but the glare of the moonlight on the unfinished floor and walls is so blinding that he doesn’t see them until they’re steps away — Lewis Hamilton and Valtteri Bottas, boss and underboss of the infamous, the inimitableSyndikatMercedes.





	loose bolt, complete machine

**Author's Note:**

> but sir, this is my emotional support au that i use to cope with the sport that’s taking years off my life 
> 
> (also hi! this is monday aka dick suck anon, here with an actual albeit throwaway account since ao3 doesn’t support anonymous pseuds and it seems like, god help me, i’m here to stay).
> 
> this is comparatively light, but still, warning for depictions of violence bc it’s mafia au and someone’s contractually obligated to get shot. title from fall out boy, who i guess now have the dubious honor of being the official soundtrack to these shenanigans.

There’s good pain, and there’s bad pain. Charles doesn’t mind the former sort. Might even, if pressed to admit (and not _ hard-pressed _ at that, he knows himself) enjoy it a little under the right circumstances. Good pain is useful: as cost paid in exchange for desire obtained, as method of eliminating distractions, as vehicle for self-actualization and self-improvement.

Bad pain is the pain of fucking up. It’s the sharp and persistent pain of having taken a brutal full-body high-speed impact, a few broken ribs at the least and nasty bruises all over, the aching of his back and shoulders from being tied up against a pole, rope chafing cruelly around his wrists and ankles, a gag biting into the corners of his mouth. 

It’s stupid and frustrating and barely fair, what happened. He’d tried, he’d _ taken initiative, _and all he has to show for it is all this _bad pain._

He’d gotten news earlier in the night of a Mercedes shipment coming in — inconsequential enough a delivery that Mattia had more or less ordered him to stay out of it. But any opportunity to gain intel on the enemy is a valuable one, so he’d ventured out to the docks on the promise of keeping it strictly ISR, _ just observing while they unload the cargo, Mattia, I won’t get involved _.

And he would have kept his word, he really would have just sat there and gone home after four long and tedious hours watching a lot of people scurry about without anything really happening. Except, right at the end of it all, the McLaren boys had come barrelling in from nowhere, whooping and hollering and blasting atrocious Eurodance from their car speakers — surely, that had to be Lando — as they gatecrashed stage left like a pair of teenagers out on a joyride, throwing the entire operation into chaos.

And in chaos, of course, exists opportunity. Valtteri’s men had fled with the goods while Lewis’ contingent stayed behind to contend with the sudden swarm of orange-clad assholes, the flash of muzzle fire lighting up the dark.

The call had come in very shortly — Mattia, irritated, like a man telling off a recalcitrant pet, bad dog, no treats.

“Do not engage, Charles, repeat, head down, _do not engage_.” 

But Mattia wasn’t _ there _ , he couldn’t see the situation unravelling, or rather, coming together in their favor. Couldn’t _ sense _ the opportunity unfolding before him in real time, and in any case, it was always Charles’ philosophy that advice could and ought to be discarded as circumstances changed. The new compound Mercedes had developed was particularly powerful, particularly volatile, and sure to be in high demand. A sample of it would be invaluable to the R&D lab techs and would guarantee them a competitive advantage moving forward. Besides, Charles _ knew _ that he could capture the contraband with ease. Valtteri was known to be a spineless man, an easy target, had been botching missions left and right of late, and Charles? He was better than Valtteri — a better driver, a deadlier shot. Given all these considerations, _ not _going for it would be the stupider move by far.

He hadn’t thought twice before switching the radio off and flooring it. Cue a thrilling cat-and-mouse chase through the neon-drenched midnight streets of the city, the kind of hunt he loved best: throwing his vehicle around corners and into and through narrow alleyways, his revolver in one hand, the other on the wheel, picking off Valtteri’s men one at a time, precise and reckless, borderline out-of-control, gaining second by second on the man himself who looked increasingly helpless, increasingly frantic, so desperate to shake him off that he’d skidded into mistake after mistake —

And then a blur of bright color in his peripheral vision, an enormous impact, a sideways lurch, gravity inverted, a curtain of darkness suddenly drawn — 

And then this. Waking up in a cavernous space, an under-construction floor of a high-rise building, a cage of glass and concrete and bare metal girders with him tied up at the center like an exotic animal on display.

The elevator bell chimes, echoing ominously through the empty floor, but the glare of the moonlight on the unfinished floor and walls is so blinding that he doesn’t see them until they’re steps away — Lewis Hamilton and Valtteri Bottas, boss and underboss of the infamous, the inimitable _Syndikat _Mercedes. 

They’re an odd pair, ridiculously matched. Valtteri holding a metal attaché case in one hand and a to-go cup of coffee in the other, casual as anything, adding insult to injury; Lewis in a getup that makes him look more like a recalcitrant college student than the most feared crime lord in the city, joggers and a blazer, dove-grey with flashes of teal-green, crisp white sneakers, neatly braided hair.

Charles feels no fear upon seeing them. Only fury. Fury that he’d miscalculated, that it had to end like this, that all his unfulfilled ambitions would have to remain so for all of eternity — because for all his nonchalance Lewis has a lethal look in his dark eyes, and the flashing knife he’s twirling hypnotically around and around his fingers says much the same, but louder. 

He’d been great. He could have been greater. He could have led Ferrari into battle and _ obliterated _ Mercedes off the face of this earth, could have ruled the city currently spread out beneath him, nighttime lights twinkling like precious gems scattered on a jeweler’s tray. The city, then the country, the continent, beyond. All his for the taking, _ except _.

Except.

_ Except _ he’s not even fucking _ sure _what happened tonight, and he’s angry at that, too, that he’ll never be able to find out, though the unbearably smug look on Valtteri’s face tells him that somewhere, somehow he’d been led into a trap.

God. It’s all so _ fucking unfair _.

“Charles Leclerc,” Lewis says, then smiles brilliantly. “At long last.”

Charles swears creatively, though it’s muffled by the gag cutting into his tongue, and thrashes against his restraints despite the pain, bad pain, it sends jolting through his body. Lewis tips his head at Valtteri, who sets down his briefcase, steps forward, and yanks the offending piece of cloth from his mouth.

“Sorry, man,” Lewis says. “What was that?”

“_ Fuck _you, Lewis,” Charles rasps. He wriggles again against his bonds and spits to wet his lips; a red stain on the concrete, the taste of copper on his tongue. 

“Don’t bother,” Lewis says, putting an arm out as Valtteri moves to throw his drink into Charles’ face. “It’s a waste of good coffee.”

Valtteri mumbles something about it being shit coffee, actually, but holds onto the cup.

“You’ve turned down all my invites to dinner, and Ferrari has denied all my formal requests for a meeting,” Lewis says. “This is pretty extreme, but this was the only way we could have a chat.”

“It didn’t take you very long to deal with McLaren,” Charles observes, refusing to engage in these bullshit pleasantries.

“Ah … about that,” Lewis says. As if on cue, the elevator chimes again, and out of the glare of the moonlight emerges Lando Norris.

_Fucking of course _, Charles thinks, realization dawning in a nuclear flash, and the gut-churning rage in him intensifies. The firefight at the docks had been a planned distraction. It’d been a flash of orange he’d seen, right before he’d been broadsided.

God, he’d been so _ stupid _ . But then, how could Mattia not have warned him? The signs of a McLaren-Mercedes alliance in the works would have been impossible to ignore, how could nobody have _ known _ or _ realized? _

“Hey,” Lando says nervously, a little out of breath. “Sorry I’m late.” He’s dressed in a bright blue-and-orange jumpsuit — because fuck stealth, professionalism, and good taste, Charles supposes, though if that wasn’t McLaren’s motto, through and through. 

“Hey, kid,” Lewis says. “You’re right on time.” He nods again and Valtteri hands over the attaché case. “Count it. Make sure it’s all there.”

Lando’s eyes widen as he receives the case.

“Wow, this is like, the coolest, most Hollywood thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, and then his eyes grow impossibly wider as he pops the latches on the case and sees the stacks of cash carefully arranged inside. He spends a token few minutes poking at the bills, then clears his throat and says in his best grown-up voice, “it’s all there.”

Charles snorts despite himself. He knows the kid can’t count for shit, can barely string a sentence together without tripping over his own lack of vocabulary.

“Don’t spend it all at once,” Lewis says, with a wry smile. “And tell Carlos to set a meeting next week, the three of us. We have some things to discuss.”

“Alright. He’s finishing up at the docks, but I’ll tell him,” Lando says, still looking like he’d taken a sledgehammer to the back of the head. His hands are shaking, Charles notes.

“Good. Now scram.”

“Scramming,” Lando says. “And sorry for the hit earlier, Charles. It’s nothing personal. ”

He makes brief eye contact with Charles and then shrinks away at whatever he sees there. _ Good _ , Charles thinks spitefully. If he by some miracle of miracles survives this, Lando had _ better _ run and hide. Even if he doesn’t, by the time they fish his body out of the river, those on the street will have caught wind of whatever alliance Mercedes and McLaren had just apparently entered into. For a cool million in cash, Lando’s just pinned a fluorescent-orange target on his back, and nobody in _ this _ world is going to show mercy to the kid just because he’s young and adorable. Run with the wolves, deal with the fangs. It’s lucky he’s got Carlos to keep him out of real trouble.

“An alliance with McLaren? When did this happen?” Charles asks, after Lando absconds at top speed with, essentially, his own death warrant.

“Not officially yet, that’s what the meeting next week is for,” Lewis says. “Tonight was the audition, and I’d say he and Carlos were very impressive. Seriously, man. Like Lando said. Don’t take it too personally.”

“He destroyed my car,” Charles says, bitchily. That was personal to _ him _. He’d loved that thing.

“Yeah, shame,” Lewis says, with real remorse in his voice. “That was a beautiful machine. The way you were running Valtteri down with it, work of art.”

“I would’ve caught him,” Charles insists, because Lewis has to know that he isn’t half as clever or as machinating as he thinks he is. “If Lando hadn’t taken me out, I would’ve caught him and you would have nothing.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t have caught Valtteri. He’s really good at pretending to be useless. It’s why we keep him around, for his acting abilities,” Lewis says, and pats his companion favorably on the shoulder. Valtteri looks singularly placid for a man who’d just been used as bait and backhanded across the face with a compliment, but Charles supposes he’s just used to it. _ Spineless. Coward _ . All those things they say about him are right after all. “Why do you think he’s been binning it on runs these past few weeks? So you’d underestimate him. It’s a tactic that only works once, but it only has to work once. Because now _ you’re _here.” 

“_ Fils de pute _,” Charles spits.

“Language,” Lewis admonishes, all his faux-affability suddenly stripped from him. He pushes the sleeves of his jacket up, revealing the intricate tattoos curling up his forearms, and clenches his fingers around the handle of his knife. “Valtteri, you’re dismissed. Tell Toto I’ll be back soon with the little prince’s head on a silver fucking platter.”

And Valtteri, good dog yes treats, obediently trots to the elevator and departs, leaving them alone. Lewis steps closer, ever closer, and puts the flat of the blade against Charles’ cheek. He turns his wrist in, presses down hard, carves a stinging line of cold fire across his cheekbone. A warm wetness drips down his face.

“Look at you, man,” Lewis says, almost reverently. “I almost hate to do this.”

Charles closes his eyes. Despite everything, he still feels an electric thrill from it, the threat hovering over him, the anticipation and the follow through, the bite of pain — this time uncategorizable as either good or bad — the sweet relief that follows. It’s heightened now by a shameful hollowing _ fear _ beneath it, and he’s furious at himself one last time that he couldn’t overcome it after all, that lesser human instinct of weakness, the dread at the unknown that follows the killing strike, the thought that he was _ something _ and now will be _ nothing _, eternal but unnamed, knowing only oblivion and loneliness forever.

He bites down on his tongue to keep from saying anything he’ll regret and braces one last time against his restraints, in case there’s any give at all. None. His heart pounds in his chest, loud enough he thinks Lewis can hear it, probably does, judging by the way he huffs out a laugh.

The tension stretches, wire-taut. Lewis is hardly a man to toy around — any minute now, he’s going to do it — yes, here it is, a whisper of air across his skin as Lewis winds up — here it is, the end of all things — 

Bright white, a firework bursting before his eyes, a sharp, sudden pain lancing through his flank. 

He cries out, and the sound of shattering glass registers in his consciousness faintly after, and then the clattering of metal on concrete as Lewis staggers back and drops his knife, a bloody stain spreading on his expensive, ridiculous clothes. 

He casts around wildly, lunges for his weapon — _ crack _ — the blade goes leaping across the room, skitters over an unfinished section of floor, and is lost to the darkness below. 

“What the fuck, _ what the fuck?” _Lewis yells, taking a step and falling to his knees, looking down at himself as if he’d only just noticed the bullet wound on his thigh.

Charles takes a breath, another breath, calms himself down, and does a quick calculation to figure out exactly that: _ what the fuck _. It makes no sense at all. 

One shot, two hits, downward trajectory, both nonlethal, explicitly unerring. The closest building tall enough to angle the shot in such a way is something like four hundred yards away, but the shooter would have had to aim in the gap between several other buildings as well. Not to mention the second shot that effectively disarmed Lewis, calculated and executed faster than Lewis’ reaction time from mere feet away. It’s an incredible demonstration of marksmanship that few would have even attempted and which _absolutely_ _fucking nobody_ could have pulled off.

So who _ had? _

His mind spins, cycling through the possibilities. Couldn’t be any of Kimi’s men, given their ongoing feud, and it’s _ definitely _ not Haas, who, given a point-blank can’t-miss-it shot, would still find a way to shoot themselves in the foot. Was it Max, perhaps, or Alex? They’re both crack shots, but are they _ that _good? Maybe they’d been working together? Was Pierre somehow involved? Maybe Daniil, but no, that man is not known for his subtlety and precision. Besides, none of them had known about his plan tonight. It’d been a last-minute decision. Only Mattia had known. Had Mattia told someone?

Lewis, having also gotten over the initial shock of being hit, seems to have arrived at a different conclusion. He pushes himself to his feet with a groan and leans himself against a nearby pillar to ease the strain on his injured leg. He presses his hand to his wound, wincing but also, strangely enough, smiling in a jarringly affectionate way, given the circumstances.

“What?” Charles demands. “What do you know? Who did this?”

Lewis just shakes his head, and Charles knows he's not getting another word out of the man. So they settle in to wait. The silent, awkward minutes tick on, one minute, two, five, ten, the blood congealing on Charles’ face and belly, cold against his skin. And then there’s the whine of machinery as the pulley drags the elevator of the building up and up, then it grinds to a halt. _ Ding _.

Out of the moonlight walks a man that at a quick glance might be taken for a street musician, slight and unobtrusive and somewhat scruffy as he is, holding a long case in one hand that might well contain an instrument. But a busker never wandered the nighttime streets in tac gear, and not even a musician could have handled an instrument with the familiarity as this man did the case containing his rifle, held as an extension of his own body.

“Hello, Charles,” Sebastian Vettel says. “Lewis.”

“Sebastian,” Lewis says. Sebastian sets down his weapon case gently and bounds in for a full hug, grinning like a bastard, though mindful of Lewis’ injury. They both seem genuinely delighted to see each other, and it’s a long minute before they’re done chattering like schoolboys and Sebastian again acknowledges Charles.

“I would ask if all is well with you, Charles, but, well — clearly not.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Charles snaps.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sebastian says, apparently unaffected by the rude greeting. Though can you _ blame _ him for being shocked, Charles thinks, considering that on all records, in the civilian world and gangland alike, this man is officially dead. “Killed” by Charles’ own hand, at that. Sebastian’s last words to him had been _ enough for me, Charles, goodbye and good luck _, said with the resignation and finality of a man actually starting his katabasis into the underworld.

“I knew it was you, man, just from that shot,” Lewis says, practically effusive, stars in his eyes. “Nobody else could’ve done it. Crazy. How’s that even work, with the angles?”

Sebastian shrugs modestly.

“Like riding a bike, I guess,” he says. “All those calculations Marko had me do in training, the range cards. Wind speed this, angle of descent that. This new generation doesn’t know.”

“Tell me about it,” Lewis says, with a smirk. “They’re all so young and goddamn _ cocky _.”

They look at him in unison, the spark of a shared joke in their eyes, and chuckle in a genuinely fond and uncondescending way that sets Charles’ teeth on edge nonetheless. He supposes he ought to be properly abashed and contrite and grateful, but he just feels numb inside, cold and distant. Probably the blood loss, setting in. Definitely not the humiliation of being outdrawn and outmaneuvered and having to be _rescued_ from himself, _yet again._

“He’ll learn, though,” Sebastian says, with the edge of a question in it.

“He’ll learn,” Lewis agrees.

“Thank you,” Sebastian says. “I appreciate it.” 

“_ Putain _ ,” Charles swears. This is worse than anything else, being handed this _ free pass _ — at this point he would have _ rather _they killed him, spare him this utterly pitiless pity. 

“Hey, respect your elders,” Lewis says, and they have another giggle at that. “You heading back tonight?”

“Right after this,” Sebastian says. “The girls have a thing tomorrow, I promised Hanna. But if you can keep a secret, come up to Switzerland sometime. We would love to have you. I wanted to tell you sooner but, well, there’s no easy way to get a message to you except in person.”

“My lips are sealed, man,” Lewis says. “Well, I won’t keep you. I suppose you and Charles want a minute?”

“Please,” Sebastian says. 

“Take care, Seb,” Lewis says, limping toward the elevator. “See you in Switzerland one of these days.”

“See you,” Sebastian says cheerily, but under it he sounds a little remorseful, a little nostalgic at that, and tracks Lewis all the way across the floor until the doors of the elevator slide closed. Keeps looking at the elevator for a second or two after that, even, then heaves a heartfelt sigh. “Those were good times,” he says, to someone — certainly not to Charles. Finally, he turns and faces Charles and says, “now then.”

The change in Sebastian’s demeanor is subtle but incredible. His bright eyes turn cold and piercing, boring into and through Charles, reducing him to nothing more than an object, a dataset from which all his flaws are written plain, to be extracted and analyzed, no matter how hard he’s tried to hide them.

Charles suddenly very aware that this man has _ killed _ people. And he was good at it, the _ best _at it, the beast in the dark, king of nightmares. Had singlehandedly built Marko and Christian’s empire on freshly turned gravedirt before defecting to Ferrari — and got away with it because nobody dared tell him otherwise. Had brought a veneer of prestige to this old house fallen on hard times, developed the product they sold, established the network of runners and alliances still used today. 

Academically, Charles had known all this. But he _ gets it _ now. God above, he understands. 

Sebastian straightens up to his full height, an unimpressive and unassuming man, except it’s like gravity bends and warps around him, somehow. He turns all of it off in a hundredth of a second, the grinning impudence, the boyish exuberance, and a placidity settles over him like a mantle on the shoulders of an old, battle-hardened monarch. Sebastian is a man who’s spent a lifetime committing unforgivable acts and has _ made his peace with it _, has come out the other end knowing who he is, what he is, what he does, what he wants. And none of it involves or regards Charles in the least. Facing the stillness of this marksman is like facing the indifference of a hurricane.

“All the years I’ve worked with him,” Sebastian says, “I’ve _ never _ heard Mattia beg the way he did tonight. I said no, of course. I walked away from this, and I intended to stay away. Then Marko called me, then Christian, Kimi, _ Daniel _ , even. All asking me for the same thing. He pulled every last favor he had for you tonight, Charles. The minute you left for that stakeout he had my flight chartered. You don’t want to know how much he offered me for tonight. To help him out _ one last time _.”

“How much?” Charles asks.

“Doesn’t matter, I turned it down,” Sebastian says, waving a hand dismissively. He looks a little disappointed that Charles asked at all, and something inside Charles cowers. 

“So what changed your mind?” Charles asks, and there’s an element of pleading to it now — how could he not want to know _ why _, having had something akin to divine intervention called down to his rescue. The sort of miracle only saints and martyrs used to get, spent on him, someone who is most definitely not the first, and refuses to be the second. His one free pass in this lifetime, granted to him by a man who’d, at best, not even liked him that much.

“You’re very special, little prince,” is all he says. “I hope you know this.”

“I know,” Charles says, and for the first time, he feels the shame in admitting as much, a sickly feeling in his stomach, lodged deep in the back of his throat. Sebastian nods, satisfied, and reaches his hand out. Charles flinches back, thinking now the punishment will come, now he will suffer — but all Sebastian does is gently run a thumb over the deep cut Lewis had left on his face. The spark of pain it dregs up is good pain, Charles decides, the pain of survival, of passing through the event horizon of his own mortality and emerging unscathed. The best pain. 

“That’s going to scar,” Sebastian comments, then looks at the blood on his thumb, smiles mischievously, and drags it in a line across Charles’ throat — just to be funny, he supposes, but who can tell with this guy. Sebastian smiles brightly. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be handsome. Take care, Charles.”

He picks up his weapon in its case and leaves, the moonlight sloughing off him, a play of light and shadow, here now, gone now, leaving Charles alone in the vast, yawning emptiness, waiting for a second deliverance.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m running out of nonlethal ways to for people to take a bullet, y’all. also, i promise that charles “i’m not mad, i just think it’s funny that” leclerc is one of my favorite drivers, i just find it personally hilarious when he cannot catch a goddamn break. 
> 
> the usual, if you please: this is entirely a work of fiction and please keep it away from the real world and the real people involved. as always, thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [my time’s water down a drain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22951144) by [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter)


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